


Unexpected

by redheadeddevastation



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Human AU, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redheadeddevastation/pseuds/redheadeddevastation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor and Darcy, mid-twenties. Human AU one shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> I should preface this story by explaining that when writing it, I couldn't use the name "Thor" and keep the same tone. In my mind, "Thor" equals dominance, charm, a little cockiness- y'know, THOR. So I wrote the whole thing using only pronouns for the male character, then went back and sprinkled Prince Thunderpants' name a few spots. So... there's that.
> 
> Also, it got a little angsty there and that really wasn't how it started out. Huh.

With him, she always ends up begging. For what, she isn't sure, but she keeps pleading, a handful of words falling from her lips repeatedly and thoughtlessly. It was all she could say and silence seemed impossible. Her only consolation was that he seemed as mystified as she was.

"’Please’ what?" he would ask softly. "What do you want me to do?"

How could she explain in the moment that she wanted more, everything, mercy and completion? She wanted him to rule her, take her begging and use it against her, order her movements and free her from thoughts with the clarity of force. She would only be able to feel, then; just focus on the commands and pleasing him with her ability to obey so well and earn her pleasure.

...how could she say that?

Thor was gentle, sweet in nature and boyishly playful. He did not appear to have the shadows in his spirit that pressed Darcy to seek out such complicated comforts. He seemed utterly unaware of his own affect on people: men gravitating to his aura of acceptance to a club of raucous manly camaraderie, women looking him over with lust but transported to their teen years, electric and giddy and uncertain.

She didn't want to ask him for those dark things when he seemed to thrive effortlessly in light.

Her own insecurity mixed with bravado had gotten her here- in a cab, in a Halloween costume of a drunken cheerleader (originally just a cheerleader, but, hey, she knew how to adapt), he in his actual military fatigues doubling as a costume for tonight, attempting to count the dollars he was giving to the driver through his own alcohol-hued perception. He grabbed her hand and pulled her roughly out of the car, reminding her that he was so *totally* unaware of his own strength when he wasn't focusing on being careful.

The memory of him drunkenly stumbling up to her apartment at 3 a.m. midsummer came to mind, him asking to come in and talk because he was lonely. Her new kitten took to climbing the new thing/person/hulk/mountain with determination as he sat and they spoke. In his happiness to hold the bright-eyed ball of fluff, she had to loosen his fingers several times when the kitten's 'talking' mews turned to 'panic' mews in his grip. He softly apologized every time to the tiny, vocal animal and would briefly encourage her climbing, before he lost focus and again absentmindedly reached to take the kitten in hand. (Incidentally, he actually HAD just talked to her about several things until 4:30 a.m. before announcing he felt much better, thanked her for her friendship and walked the few blocks to his own little apartment. Just... what?!)

But now- NOW- he’s taking off his jacket and undershirt, about to unbuckle his belt in what must seem like the normal routine of disrobing. Darcy stops him, reminding herself silently that this is happening and not just the photo shoot for a sexy military men calendar or the like. She wants to see him, wants to watch him at the various stages of undress. This feels so heady and dream-like and she wants it to go on as long as possible. She mentally knew that he must be in amazing shape, what with the rugby and bmx riding he quietly did in his free time. However here, in his sparse basement apartment, from her place on the threadbare carpet in front of his fully laced Army boots, the theoretical was replaced by carved proof, without self-consciousness or ego. It is unreal- *no one* looks like this without a trainer and professional lighting... yet here he stands. He merely looks to Darcy for further direction, hands still on his belt, apparently unaware of the tidal wave of lust and inadequacy he simultaneously inspired. She stares up at his chest and broad shoulders, now so obviously impressive, though she realizes the only thing truly hiding them before was his unassuming demeanor, welcoming and intentionally devoid of intimidation.

Darcy’s legs are unevenly splayed in front of her, knees overlapping as she keeps her thighs together under the short uniform skirt. She’s leaning back on her palms, elbows locked and soft brown locks brushing the floor. She knows what she looks like- high school fantasies blended with 1940’s pinup girl- so she levels her best Bettie Paige-esque mischievous smile up at him as she cocks her head to the side.

“What can I do for you, soldier?”

He has no interest in playing right now. He thickly mutters “fuck” to himself, drops to his knees while spreading hers, pushes her back against the floor with his weight as he seeks her mouth. God, this cannot be happening. His hands are all over her body, her skin, squeezing, caressing, grabbing, pulling. His left palm roughly pushes at the back of her right thigh, forcing it higher around his waist until her knee loops over the inside of his arm as his mouth attacks her neck, pulling desperate whines from her while he unwittingly pins her to the floor.

“Darcy,” he hotly breathes into her ear, “I don’t care. I don’t care about him. I want you.”

Ah. Yes. There it is: the acknowledgement of her erstwhile British unboyfriend. Several states apart geographically and, in Darcy's mind, light years apart in the ‘relationship’. And as to why his statement makes her feel a strong pull in her gut, she steadfastly does NOT think over.

His roughness, though unintentional, is thoroughly enjoyed by Darcy. When he sits back on his heels, she knows she makes quite the lusty view as his eyes rake over her- disheveled, on her back, lips swollen, eyes glazed and arms laid over her head, panting, ample chest heaving, skirt partially up as her legs loosely rest over his thighs. He looks at the sides of her top, fumbling with something. She realizes he wants the top off but isn’t 100% clear on how to make that happen. She quickly relieves him of the task, mainly because she knows the outfit would be accidentally pulled apart before she can say ‘it’s borrowed.’ He pushes his hands under the thick polyester material, shoves it over her head and arms with one hand and arches her back with the other. She rests on the floor once again and (thinking ahead) quickly unzips the skirt. He initially yanks at it, stops, then carefully straightens her legs, together and in the air, and drunkenly attempts to remove her skirt (gently) without destroying it. Just like with the kitten, the occasional awareness of frailty up against his strength tempers his actions.

Once he removes the skirt, he folds it in half (adorably, it must be mentioned) and places it gingerly on the floor beside them, turning to look her over again. Darcy knows the black lace balconette bra and matching sheer black lace panties had been worth it when he freezes for a second before his body covers hers once more.

“Darcy,” he whispers against her neck, strained, “I want you. Now.”

Fuck. The way he says it, she’s surprised her panties aren’t melting off.

“Stand up,” she tells him. Darcy watches the muscles flow beneath his skin as he moves. She kneels in front of him, reaching for his belt while his breath stutters. She’s undoing the fly when his hand stops hers.

“Darce, I don’t wanna be too quick.”

She glances up at him through her lashes, finishes unbuttoning his pants slowly, and says, “No, I know, I know. I just… want a little bit.” She pulls down his boxers as she speaks. "Just a little, okay?"

His eyes close, jaw clenches and his head falls back.

“Fu…”

His cock is thick, hard and throbbing. Just like the rest of him, it is impressive, and Darcy’s face is all ‘doe eyed sexy pout’ as she slides one hand to the base to apply slight pressure. As she takes his length in her mouth, she moans with appreciation at the silky skin gliding over her lips. The heat of her mouth easing over his shaft causes the tendons in his neck to tense and his hands ball into fists to stop himself from fucking her pretty lips. She keeps her fingers gripped around the bottom of his shaft, forcing him to swell a bit more and feel her tongue and throat all the more acutely. She doesn’t continue deep-throating him long, feeling his prick thicken and pulse in anticipation. She gives the head of his cock a few slow, playful licks when he looks down at her through lidded eyes. He leans down, grabs her arms and hauls her to her feet, roughly kissing her as he walks her backward. When the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed, he pushes her onto the mattress and is on top of her quickly. He forcefully kisses down her neck and each shoulder while he pushes the lace bra straps down her arms, his intensity leaving no room for resistance. His camo pants are shoved around his knees and his painfully hardened prick rubs a maddening pressure through her panties, over her clit, making her cry out while he reaches between her back and the sheets, unsnapping her bra without fanfare. His patience seems to finally be waning.

When he leans back, he takes that piece of lingerie with him, looking down at her before making quick work of unlacing his boots and discarding the rest of his clothing. When he stands and turns to Darcy, still laying on the bed, flushed and needy, he grabs under her knees and jerks her body in front of him.

 

He looks at the panties, reaches down, and starts toying with the fabric over one hip bone, a small distracted smile playing on his lips as his memory took him to a different time. His dominance seems to settle to a simmer as he huffs a single laugh, focused entirely on her panties.

“What?” she asks softly, marveling how sweet and pleased he looks in his own thoughts.

“I remember in high school, when your cheerleader uniform was real, how you tricked me into feeling your panties.”

“I did no such thing!” she tries to voice convincing resentment at the allegation, but the fact is she knows precisely what he’s talking about. He isn’t *exactly* wrong…

(8 years earlier)

“You said whenever you saw silk, you had to touch it,” she says softly, leaning in close to his chest while his breathing became heavier.

“This is not what-“ he attempts to deflect, looking behind her, as if anyone would see them in this deep corner of the labyrinthine, ancient stone court house serving now as a high school.

“It’s soft. Smooth and warm. It’s okay, y’know- you don’t have to *do* anything. Just thought you’d like the feel, is all. But, if not…”

She leans back as if to break the spell. To this, he responds.

“It’s not… I just… I don’t want it to be weird,” he gets out, eyes cast to the side. Darcy pauses for a moment, thinking, then speaks with a less practiced tone, the seductress no more.

“It’s not weird. It won’t be weird. I just kinda like to be touched through them, honestly. And, NO, I don’t mean like that. Just, um, y’know, like on my hip or something. Some place I can feel your fingers touching through silk. It’s like, you know when you pet a cat? How totally satisfied they look? It’s like that. It makes me feel like that.”

Darcy finishes talking with an uncertain look up to his face, worried about sounding like bizarre, fetish girl. He looks down at her with a good-natured (if somewhat wry) half-smile, and when his hand rests on her hip, her nerves seem to ease.

“Well, when you put it THAT way…” he trails off, rubbing a path up under her skirt with his thumb, soon joined by the rest of his heated fingers stroking over the silk. Darcy was hard-pressed not ask for more.

(Present Day)

Darcy has no qualms asking now, feeling restless and desperate and needing him to feel the same. Her hooded eyes rest on the man standing over her now, biting her lower lip before she arches her back a bit, bringing his attention to the matter at hand. His dark gaze meets hers as she breathes 'please' to him.

He has her panties off with one smooth pull and he’s crawling onto the bed, on top of her, and now she couldn’t move away from him if she wanted to. He’s touching her gently, sweetly, running his hands over the expanse of her skin. Darcy isn't asking for 'sweet'.

Again, she begs.

“Please…!” she practically whines.

At this, he leans back, once again between her legs on his knees. He grabs one leg, pulling it up the length of his body, placing several hot open mouth kisses on the inside of her ankle. By now, Darcy can only whimper. He leans down again, lining up his throbbing cock with her lust-slick entrance. He’s holding her leg to his chest as he works to push inside her. It’s slow going, though not for lack of want. Simply put, Darcy had a body built for sin but a pussy like Fort Knox. It was amazing and perplexing all at once.

“Shit… godda- ah! Fuck, Darcy, you’re so tight,” he manages to say once he finally bears down and forces her body to grant him access. It’s not how he likes to do it (feels too much like taking what isn’t willingly given) but he knows with Darcy, it seems to be the only way. He grits his teeth as he buries himself to the hilt inside of her, slowly, several times, trying to ease her open a bit. Her right leg is held loosely over his hip while her left leg is still flush against his torso, and Darcy’s inability to push herself onto him is only making her squirm more. He looks down at her face, and while he’s taking deep, controlled breathes so he can last, her expression is tight from frustration and unmet desire. For a moment, the room seems to still and the only sound is her soft, clear whisper.

“Thor, please… fuck me.”

His tenuous shred of control is gone. He hikes both of her legs up in his arms and spreads them, resting the back of each knee in the crook of either arm. He begins pounding her, her vocalizations of approval spurring him on. He pulls her ankles up to his shoulders before leaning over her, pressing her into the bed as he places his forearms on either side of her head, supporting his upper body there before he resumes driving into her. Her short nails are digging into his biceps, pinned as she is, it’s the only thing she can do. The low pooling of heat in her stomach is getting stronger with each thrust, with his pelvic bone against her clit and his cock pressing just... the... spot.

She knows it will be soon and wants Thor to cum as well. In this heightened state, feeling the scorching heat as his shaft stiffens and pulses before shooting his seed into her… there are no words to capture that feeling, so acute yet engulfing as it is.

“More. I want it. Thor, please- I want you,” Darcy tells him in a slightly breathless rush, her hands now by her sides, curled up and clenching the blanket beneath them. He opens his eyes to watch her tits bounce in time with his rhythm, pulling a strangled groan from him as he picks up the speed, uncertain how much longer he can hold out.

“Ye- yes… oh, mm, y-… jus- fuh… just like that…don’t stop…” Darcy’s words slid into punctuated shouts matching the movement of his hips, her body tense and ready. Thor watches as she gasps in, feels her cunt tighten around his cock, and she strains to arch her back before she quietly whispers,

“…fuck.”

And he comes undone with that, exploding inside of her with a shout, pushing himself into her harder with those last extended thrusts, as if by force alone he could get deeper, get more. He feels her orgasm rolling through her body as well, with the smallest rotation of her hips to draw out the sensations and slight moans with every panting breath she exhales.

She watches his chest rise and fall rapidly once he lays next to her. She isn’t sorry. Maybe she should be, maybe she will be, but right now, she isn’t. She feels satisfied. The ache between her legs, the sheen of sweat cooling on her chest, the view she has right now- she is not sorry.


End file.
